Addiction
by SeungSeiRan
Summary: She's like alcohol. Scorching and intoxicating. Miguel x Zafina.


Let's get one thing straight. I **don't** like Enrique but I **do** like making people happy. Especially if it's one of my favorite authors like **Amethyst Light**. Requested by and dedicated to you! Starring Tekken's sexiest new couple ;). Not my best but… I tried.

* * *

_I'm wasting away, made a million mistakes_

_**Am I too late?**_

_There's a storm in my head and it rains on my bed_

_When you're not here_

_**I'm not afraid of dying**_

_**But I am afraid of losing you**_

_Maybe I'm addicted, I'm out of control_

_But __**you're the drug that keeps me from dying**_

_Maybe I'm a liar __**but all I really know is**_

_**You're the only reason I'm trying.**_

- Addicted, Enrique Iglesias

* * *

Damn Japanese beer. Too dilute. Especially at a time when he needed numbness the most.

Obeying an impulse, he was up and over the bar-counter, rummaging through the bottles of liquor in the wooden storage counters. An irritated protest from the barkeep only resulted in a violent shove to the grimy floor, courtesy of the roughened Spaniard. Glaring at the selection, the man cursed at the lack of choice before his eyes. Heh, anything hard and strong would have to do now.

He was soon passing through the doors of the old, rundown inn located in a not-too-pleasant part of town. With nowhere else to be, he let his long and lean frame slump down until he was sitting on the dusty sidewalk, back against a smoke-blackened brick-wall. Groaning, he took a swig from the glass bottle clasped in one taped hand.

The liquid burnt his throat like fire. He didn't mind that much. Alcohol was an acquired taste.

A silken rustling sound made him start.

His head spun as the cheap perfume of a matured prostitute invaded his nostrils. Swearing loudly in his native tongue, he sent her off with a particularly rude hand sign.

It wasn't that it was a sight that disgusted him. The red-light districts of Madrid literally overflowed with whores like that one. Miniscule scraps of clothing, fishnet stockings, painted lips and cheeks, and whatnot. Occasionally, he'd taken them up on one of their offers. No real feelings, just meaningless, temporary 'pleasure'. Real pleasure was what he got from a fight. And not just any fight would suffice. A good, old-fashioned brawl, no holds barred. Rules and regulations were meant to be broken.

So here he was. The King of the Iron Fist Tournament, held in Japan. Destroy anything and anyone in his way until he could have the joy of crushing every single worthless bone in Jin Kazama's body.

He laughed harshly. There was nothing joyous in that sound.

The throbbing pain in his left knee-cap simply refused to subside tonight. Suffice to say, he'd made a grim mistake in underestimating that red-haired Asian punk during yesterday's match-up. He'd gained a heavily bruised knee joint and had almost lost an eye.

Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he tried to console himself with the fact that there was still tomorrow.

Enough opportunities to avenge his beloved sister.

Ah, tomorrow. Who was it that he had to face tomorrow?

As the wine swirled down his throat, it came to him. He choked and spluttered at the thought.

She was alcohol personified. Scorching and mesmerizing, her skin like amber fire in the sunlight. And as much as he hated the taste, he'd grown addicted to it. Zafina. Her very name made his muscles tense…

That wretched… creature. She'd inadvertedly become his distraction.

Women. All alike. Temptresses…

But then again, did he really mind?

After all, she wasn't bad on the eyes. He'd seen the other men gape and gawp over her as he watched on in envy and amusement. She was one of those raven-haired, olive-skinned, Mediterranean beauties. Subdued yet fiery within. Like how he preferred his drink.

Shit. He was supposed to be avoiding her. A rehab of sorts. A proper Spartan rehab where the withdrawal gave you symptoms of shivering, dizziness, headaches, hallucinations, nausea, and everything else. Where the patients were the inmates and the doctors were sadistic wardens in white coats and sterilized smiles. He was supposed to be in an emotional rehab in his mind. Not a fancy hotel, a rehab.

He chuckled as he ended his chain of thought with another swig. Such crazy things ran through his mind when he was drunk.

Jumping off cliffs.

Knocking out anyone who dared to even glance at his disoriented form.

Falling in love.

_Falling in love? Now wait just a – _

A spasm of white-hot pain struck his skull like a bolt of lightening. Swearing, he rubbed at his temples until it managed to ease itself to some extent. He leaned back further into the wall and tilted his head to gaze up at the starless sky. Good? No stars meant no additional light. His head already felt like a beaten gong.

He closed his eyes in order to avoid any further visual stimuli. Any more and he'd snap.

_Evil stars, indeed._

A rustle of clothing and a tinkle of metallic jewelry did not deter him from nodding off. The musky scent that seemed to grow stronger only served to lull him further away into slumber. Footsteps echoed softly in the dark.

"Ah, so it _is_ you."

That voice.

Miguel snapped out of his drunken stupor and forced his heavy eye-lids to rise. His sight was blurry but he managed to determine that the voice belonged to the owner of a pair of tanned feet encased in dusky leather sandals. His attempt at speech was cut short by another shot of pain to his forehead. She crouched low until she was facing him, dark eyes boring into his very own.

"Do I even need to ask why you ended up here?"

"Zafina…" he managed to speak out before his voice was swallowed by another deep-throated groan. Clicking her tongue in exasperation, the young woman began once more.

"I understand we'll be facing each other tomorrow."

"…"

"Are you so willing to lose?"

To her surprise, he did nothing but smirk in reply. He really _was_ drunk…

She tried a different angle.

"Come now. I shall be in no mood to fight you like this tomorrow."

"All the better for you."

"… Yes, I suppose. But… "

_But what? Why?_

"You pity me."

"No, I don't." she affirmed sternly.

Was that a twinkle in his eye? "Yes, you do."

"No, I – " she stopped before he could drag her in further. Men…

_They were all alike._

"In any case, you need to remain sober."

"I never can when you're around."

"How flattering." she intoned with much sarcasm. The Spaniard shook his head, his expression unreadable.

"It's true. It's better than… alcohol."

"What is?"

He opened his mouth to answer before eventually falling forward into her arms. She'd just managed to catch him.

"Don't bother."

Raising him up to his unsteady feet, she proceeded to walk his semi-conscious form back to wherever he was lodging for the night.

"I think I already know."


End file.
